Her smallness, even in shadow beside the grave,
Fit not at all with what he’d said of her;
And, afterward, I wondered whether
Some odd patina of love had glossed his mind.
Some of it, perhaps, could be put to mourning—
The words at best a kind of shyness,
The awkward movement of her hands—
But the sun caught her all in angles,
A face too thin, sharp-cornered at the jaws.
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